Faulty Preconceptions
by Lady Libertine
Summary: Christopher Halliwell is defiant, rebellious, and significantly different. When the past threatens to return with a vengeance, he is confronted with a destiny he is reluctant to accept and the Halliwells learn that sometimes blood just isn’t enough.
1. Chapter One

**Faulty Preconceptions**

Christopher Halliwell is defiant, rebellious, and significantly different. When the past threatens to return with a vengeance, he is confronted with a destiny he is reluctant to accept and the Halliwells learn that sometimes blood just isn't enough.

* * *

"You can't go home again" – Thomas Wolfe

* * *

**Chapter One**

_The man leaned over a chipped sink in the dilapidated bathroom of his cramped, cluttered, and dingy excuse for an apartment. The room was dark, dank, and illuminated by the single, filthy light bulb that hung from the water-stained ceiling, offering only the slightest rays of light. Drawing a wet cloth over the various wounds that riddled his body, he neither flinched nor faltered, and stared down into the basin of water that was coloured by the remnants of his now-drying blood. He dropped the bloodstained washcloth into the basin and took one last glance at the circular burn on his shoulder. He could hear his friend pattering around his small apartment and coldly narrowed his eyes as he entered his water-stained, paint-peeled bedroom._

"_Don't get any ideas," the man warned, throwing his friend a hostile look. "You're not a permanent fixture."_

_The friend raked his fingers through his dirty-blond hair and gave a toothy grin. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled. "Is that your way of telling me to piss off?" The friend paused and threw a look over at the rumpled, half-made double bed. "I was wondering about that fancy sword of yours." _

_The man's gaze followed and eventually settled on the jewel- encrusted hilt of a silver sword that was nestled amongst the brown bed sheets. He scowled at his friend and snatched the weapon off the sheets, moving to sheath the sword in its bronze, embossed scabbard. _

_The friend's eyes widened, grabbing hold of the man's hand, mid-air. "Holy fuck!" he exclaimed, eyes bulging like bowling balls. His head tipped to the side, and he read, stutteringly, "_Take me up_." There was silence as he glanced up to meet the man's agitated stare. _

"_Holy fuck!" the friend reiterated. "Tell me that's a fake!"_

"_Okay," said the man flatly. "It's a fake."_

_The man snatched his hand away and quickly sheathed the sword, his every movement tracked by his friend's wandering watch. _

"_That – that's _Excalibu_r!" the friend exclaimed. "Holy hell, how did you manage to get your paws on Excalibur?" When the man didn't say anything, the friend shook his head, repeatedly. "Tell me you're not going to…you are! I guess this is farewell, then. If you're going to take the Halliwell's, head on, you're going to have to be ready."_

_The man's gaze darkened, an aimless stare. The magnificent sword rested, glinting, against his back. "Oh, I'm ready," he said distantly. "Is there any other way to take them on?"_

* * *

_(November, 2019)_

Christopher had been sitting in the passenger seat of the family car for twenty minutes; twenty minutes of silence, twenty minutes of watching his mother's expression change twenty shades of red and blue.

The silence continued as he climbed out of the car and onto the driveway, school bag hauled over his shoulder; continued as he made his way up to the front porch and into the house; as he tossed his bag into hallway and pulled off his school blazer, discarding that, too. The precarious stillness stretched on as his mother followed him in and shut the door behind her, and broke only as she turned to face him.

If there was one thing that Chris had learned in his time as a Halliwell it was that, when angered, his mother was a force to be reckoned with. Then again, what he did and what he knew were two very different concepts, and were never all that congruent.

Piper Halliwell's anger erupted like a nuclear warhead. With an expression of utter fury, she strode forwards in a manner that would have made the former Source-Of-All-Evil quail in fear. Chris neither quailed nor relented. He stood his ground with a firmness that only a teenager could maintain.

When Piper parted her lips and spoke, he was positive that every living creature in the general vicinity of Prescott Street had instantaneously fled.

"What the _hell_ is your problem, Christopher_?_" she bellowed, an expression of intense wrath across her features.

Chris barely managed to refrain from responding with, 'many problems, many levels'. He simply gritted his teeth and stared at her with a sense of determined resolution. He tipped his chin up and maintained an expression of utter indifference, projecting the impression that her words rolled off him like water.

"Can you not go a _single_ week without me receiving a call from your school? In fact, I would settle for a single _day_! Wyatt and Casey never get into trouble like you do! Why is it always _you_, Christopher?"she spat, wild infuriated gestures giving just the right amount of emphasis to her livid words.

And there it was. She hadn't even waited until later to pull the 'Perfect Wyatt' card. Chris continued to grit and grind his teeth, patiently waiting for the right moment to present itself.

"Do you have _any _understanding of what just happened?" Piper shrieked, throwing her keys aside so they fell to the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

Chris upheld his unconcerned appearance, further fuelling her rage. His mother drew in a deep breath, brown eyes burning ferociously into his own. He sniffed indifferently, crossed his arms over his chest and assumed a 'do I honestly care' expression.

"Every single tennis ball in your school is _missing_!" she roared. "Every – Single – Tennis ball!" She drew in a sharp breath. "Every week its just another stunt for you, isn't it? What was your great need for tennis balls that you had to steal _THREE HUNDRED_of them?"

Chris shifted on the spot, unable to prevent his expression from seeping amusement. His lips curled up in a barely restrained triumphant smirk.

His mother's voice lowered and suddenly grew steady. "Oh, you think it's _funny_, do you? You skip school, you don't go to your classes," she said. Each step she was taking brought her closer and closer to her insistently defiant son. "You don't do your homework…you don't hand in your assignments." Piper drew in a sharp and perilous breath, her entire being bubbling with freshly brewed rage. "You've gone from the top of your year to _barely scraping through_!" she hissed.

Chris reined in a slow breath and fought to maintain an expression of nonchalance. He folded his arms and glowered at his mother, unconcerned by her ever-growing fury.

"This is the _last_ straw, Christopher," she hissed in a low, dangerous voice. "This is the _last_ straw. You're going to find all _three hundred_ of those tennis balls and _return_ them to your school. If you can't find all three hundred of them, you're going to _buy _them with your own money, and you're going to write a letter of apology."

Chris assumed his apathetic expression and said offhandedly, "They have no incriminating evidence against me and yet you still believe them? If they could prove it, they would have _actually_ expelled me."

"No, they've only asked you to leave." Piper's eyes narrowed furiously. "And seeing as I'm talking to the boy who managed to, completely unnoticed, help disassemble and reassemble a car in the middle of the school gymnasium, yes I _do_ believe them."

"_Unnoticed_," Chris returned in a calm voice. "They have no incriminating evidence against me for that either. If they did, I would have been suspended. They can't prove anything, _Mother_, and yet you still believe them. What happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

Piper set her jaw and folded her arms over her chest, a dark storm dawning across her features. "You're an incredibly smart boy, Christopher," she said. "You were getting perfect grades at school, and now you have all these marks against you. Your father, grandfather and I had all these big dreams of you headed off to an Ivy League University. How do you plan on doing that _now_? You have _no_ idea how much trouble you're in…"

Chris gave a derisive snort and smirked back at his mother. "What are you going to do? _Bind my powers_ like you always threaten to bind _Wyatt's_? Well news flash, _mother_, I don't _have_ any powers for you to bind…" he challenged in a bold tone, leaning forwards.

With one last smirk, he grabbed the jacket he had discarded on the floor and pivoted on his heels, striding down the hall way and towards the kitchen.

"_Christopher, don't you walk away from me_!" his mother yelled, storming after him. "_Christopher! __CHRISTOPHER__!_"

Chris pushed his way through the kitchen and down into the basement, slamming the door shut. Heavy fists thudded against the wood as his mother's protests seeped between the cracks, bellowing threatening to blow the door to pieces.

He smirked with a sense of satisfaction, well aware that her threats were as empty as the proverbial void, and made his way down the rickety staircase.

In the darkness, Chris leaned back against the basement wall, loosening his tie as he stared into the shadows that surrounded him. He frowned when his mother stopped thumping on the door, vaguely suspicious of her sudden retreat. A second later a recognisable voice spoke up moments before the room was filled with dozens of bright blue and white orb. The bright spherical lights swirled down from the ceiling and materialised into the outline of two shadowed figures.

"Well hey there, Papa Bear," said Chris with a lazy smirk.

Leo sighed and let go of his twelve-year-old son's hand. "Chris," he said curtly. He shook his head and momentarily felt around for the light switch before flicking it on.

Chris shot him a cold glare through the newly illuminated basement. "I wasn't talking to _you_. I was talking to Casey," he sniped.

Beside their father, Casey stuffed his hands in the pocket of his jeans. When Leo nodded towards the basement door, Casey quickly mouthed 'good luck' at Chris before dissipating in a shower of bright blue and white lights.

Chris crossed his arms over his chest and assumed the most apathetic demeanour he could conjure.

Leo sighed and shook his head once more, running his hand through his hair. "How long are you going to keep playing the 'high-school delinquent', Chris?" he asked tiredly.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Professional delinquent," he corrected, "and that's Mr. Professional delinquent, thank you."

"I haven't seen your mother this angry since you painted the word 'Misanthrope' on the side of your school Assembly Hall," said Leo, his voice somewhat accusatory.

"Mural," corrected Chris with a bright and somewhat devious grin. "It was a _mural_ and a -" he stifled a fits of mirth that displayed how ridiculous he found his words, "-an expression of self and a form of protest," he managed to finish before breaking down into snickers.

There was a short pause from Leo before he concluded, "That's not the point, Christopher. Did you really steal _three hundred_ tennis balls from your school?"

Chris didn't reply. Once again, he merely leaned back against the wall with a badly concealed smirk. Leo appeared to take this as a sign and continued. "How long is this behaviour of yours going to continue?" he asked. "I want you to think about this really well, because it costs twenty thousand dollars a year to send you to a private school, and that doesn't even include the price of your uniform, textbooks, or school excursions. You're smart, Christopher. You're _very_ smart, but apparently not that bright if you're going to continue jeopardising your academic career and stifling your chance of getting into an Ivy League university which, might I add, is the reason you're attending…"

Chris laughed and rolled his eyes, much to his father's apparent annoyance. "Oh, don't give me that. I only go to Excelsior Prep because you and Mum are falling over yourselves with pity. Wyatt and Casey, get powers and magic – _I_ get an expensive education," he said snidely. "It's the only thing that _I_ have that they don't, so if I want to self-depreciatingly jeopardise _my_ expensive education, then that's my prerogative."

He fell silent, meeting his father's dark green eyes with his own identical ones. At length, Leo finally spoke in a slow, paced manner. "If that's what you believe, Christopher, then you're going to have to explain to Grandpa why you've been asked to leave Excelsior, since he's the main source of funding for your _expensive education_."

Chris bristled when his father's expression melted into one of partial sadness.

"Your brothers may have powers, but that doesn't mean that…" began Leo.

Chris interjected with a scoff. "…It doesn't mean that I'm any less _Halliwell_, I'm still _part of the family_. I've heard it all," he said spitefully. "As much as everyone will keep saying that, it's hardly true. Magic defines this family. It's all anyone has. As much as Mum keeps going on about how she envies my ability to 'lead a normal life', it's not true. If demons didn't come crashing through the front door every second day, she wouldn't know what to do with herself.

Magic is the only thing keeping you guys together which, truthfully, is quite pathetic. I'm glad that I don't have powers, that I can't cast spells. I'm glad I'm not part of all of this self-destructive insanity. Unlike them, I don't have to martyr myself for selfish, unappreciative people."

Chris gave his father a smug smirk, arms crossed over his school uniform-clad chest.

"Magic isn't the only thing keeping this family together, Chris, and not being magical doesn't make you any different," said Leo gently. "I'm not magical and I'm still…"

Chris shook his head, saying, "Oh, but you used to be magical. You were a whitelighter when you met Mum and you may be mortal now, but you still teach at Magic School. That hardly counts."

"And you believe that?" asked his father.

Chris leaned back against the concrete basement wall, further loosening his tie. "Yes, I do," he said. "What I want to know is what this family would do if no-one had magic, or powers, or evil to fight. This family would have fallen apart years ago. Can you say '_dysfunctional_'?"

"What _I_ want to know," said Leo, "is how you managed to get three hundred tennis balls out of your school."

Chris shrugged. "With a lot of effort…" he said without thinking. He suddenly glanced up, eyes widening in shock at the realisation of what he had just admitted. "You tricked me!" he accused. "I can't believe you tricked me!"

Leo replicated Chris' previous smirk. "I can't believe you fell for it," he returned.

Chris' brilliant green eyes narrowed into a dark glare. "It's the innocent looking ones you have to watch out for," he muttered in a low voice.

"Now, your mother isn't blind. She _does_ know that you did it. That stunt of yours has 'Christopher Halliwell' written all over it. I think a punishment is in order. We'll discuss that with her later tonight." After a short pause, Leo's smirk quickly evaporated into an expression of intent seriousness. "Just tell me, what on _earth_ do you need _three hundred_ tennis balls for?" he demanded.

Chris thought for a moment before replying. "Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. It was a lesson," he said, as if this was a completely plausible explanation for his actions. There was a short pause. "And it was a form of protest," he said offhandedly.

The ex-Elder frowned disbelievingly. "A protest against _what_ exactly?"

Chris smirked and raised a hand to nonchalantly toy with the protective silver Triquetra pendant that hung around his neck. He watched his father's expression carefully, attempting to fight the desire to break down into laughter. "It was a protest against the fact that far too much emphasis is placed on athletics, in proportion the lack of emphasis placed on academia," he said lazily. "After all, Excelsior is a prep school. Weren't they supposed to be 'prepping' us for something or other?"

"You were protesting against the lack of focus on academia despite the fact that you are constantly skipping school," noted Leo. "I highly doubt that, Christopher."

Leo sighed. "You're really lucky they didn't expel you, you know. You have enough black marks next to your name, you don't need 'expulsion' written on your permanent record in big, bold letters." He regarded Chris with a sad, disappointed gaze.

Chris swallowed down his guilt and shrugged, forcing a façade of indifference with a scuff of his shoe. "I'll go to Prescott Academy, then," he said. "It's closer than Excelsior was, and a couple of my friends go there."

Leo chuckled quietly, shaking his head."Do you really think it's that easy? What are the other schools going to think when they find out why you were left; the truancy, the bad grades, the car in the middle of the gymnasium, the graffiti on the assembly hall…and now this?"

"They never proved that was me!" protested Chris. "What, is that listed under 'suspicions' in my file, or something?"

The only response he received from his father was a wry smile.

"I'm going to speak to your mother about what to do with you. _You_, on the other hand, have two choices. You can stay down here all afternoon or you can come up and eventually face the music," said Leo.

With that, Chris watched his father retreat up the rickety stairs and wrench the door open, vanishing into the kitchen. When the door finally slammed shut, Chris sighed and leaned back against the wall, once more.

He was different. He had learnt that the moment he had learnt how to talk. He – was – different. He couldn't cast spells or magically teleport himself from place A to place B. He couldn't move objects with his mind, immobilise molecules to mimic the effect to impeding time, or see the future.

The only thing 'out of the ordinary' that ever occurred to him were his dreams, or more specifically, _nightmares_; what his best friend, James, liked to call 'visions of fighting demons in his sleep'.

----

**Three Months Later**

----

_(February, 2020)_

"_Chris, you're going to be late_!"

It was six-fifty a.m. Fifteen-year-old Christopher Halliwell was hung over and had spent the entire morning finishing an assignment that wasn't even his own. Yes, it a _wonderful_ start to the day.

He took the stairs two-by-two, stumbling and falling flat on his face when he reached the last step. Feeling incredibly inane, he grabbed his satchel bag that now lay askew on the tiles and threw it over his shoulder, bursting into the dining room. His mother, father and brother sat at the table, talking over large mugs of coffee and newspapers.

The moment Wyatt spotted him he rolled his eyes and irritably said, "Took your time." After a moments silence, he asked, "Whose jacket are you wearing?" as he eyed the black and red Letterman Jacket that Chris had on.

Chris ignored his brother, stuffed a bagel into his mouth and mumbled incoherently.

Piper narrowed her eyes at this and said in a dangerously low voice, "Don't talk with your mouth full. Now hurry up, you're going to be late. Wyatt's waiting for you."

Chris merely gave a muffled chuckle before pulling the bagel out of his mouth. "_Why_?" he scoffed. "I _have_ a lift." He hefted his bag over his shoulder once more and hurried from the dining room.

"_You could have at least told me_!" Wyatt's angry voice called after him, closely followed by his mother's, 'And come straight home after school. Remember that you're grounded!"

Chris threw the front door open and ran down the stairs, heading for a shiny black convertible that was parked in the driveway. He tossed his bag into the back seat, climbing into the car and sitting himself next to an older teen with light brown hair.

The teen was wearing a pair of black sunglasses and said in a rather bored voice, "Took your time, Halliwell." There was a short pause as he examined the younger youth. "So _you're_ the one who has my jacket. I thought that I'd lost that, arsehole."

Chris glowered in response. "_James_," he returned, torn between annoyance and fatigue.

James smirked. Turning to the younger teen he asked with his eyebrows raised, "Do you have my essay?"

Chris gave a sardonic laugh. "Do you have my coffee?"

His friend rolled his eyes behind his dark shades and grabbed a take-away coffee cup from the holder, handing it to him. "Black, no sugar, right?"

Chris didn't reply. He shoved a thin-stapled booklet of paper into the older youth's waiting hands and raised the coffee cup to his lips, taking a small sip of the hot liquid.

James pulled off his sunglasses and frowned as he examined the essay. "The fuck is an _exegesis_?"

Tiredly, Chris yawned before taking another sip of the hot coffee. "An exposition. An _explanation_," he amended at James' lost expression.

"Am I supposed to _understand_ half the shit that you've written? _Nerd_."

Chris snorted and leaned back in the comfortable seat as James finally reversed out of the driveway. "You could always return the essay," he snapped.

Stopping at a traffic light, James seized the chance to turn to Chris and almost _whine_, "What, no-fucking-_way_! Coach threatened to throw me off the team if my grades didn't pick up."

Chris snickered and took another swig of his coffee. "I'm hardly surprised. Jocks aren't exactly known for their intelligence. I'll tell you what – next time you ask me to do your assignment, I'll use small words that your inferior brain can handle. It's kind of sad that _I'm_ the one writing your essays since I'm – what – _two_ years younger than you…"

James turned the corner so sharply and at such a speed that Chris had to grab hold of his seat _and_ his coffee. "You'll want to watch yourself _kid_," the elder teen said in a pseudo-threatening voice. "I could completely ruin your social status if I wanted too; and you should be flattered. Your last work got me an A plus."

"Oh yes," said Chris dryly as they came to a screeching stop at yet another set of traffic lights, "I've never been so grateful in my life. _My_ work getting _you_ praise; wonderful"

When the car finally came to a sharp halt in their school car park, James turned to his younger friend and asked dryly, "Why do you have my jacket, again?"

Chris shrugged, grabbed his bag from the back seat and hauled himself out of the car. "Because you were wasted last night." …And almost threw up on it…

"How about returning it?" James proposed almost angrily.

Chris merely smirked and leisurely leaned against the expensive black vehicle. "How about returning my essay?" With a delightedly wicked grin, he spun on his heels and swiftly headed towards the school as James locked the car.

"_Halliwell, you arsehole – come back with my fucking jacket_!" James bellowed after the fifteen-year-old youth.

----

Piper sat down in the chair opposite her eldest son, hands interlaced on top of the table. For a long moment, she remained completely silent, as if she was attempting to carefully phrase her next words.

Wyatt bristled visibly, nervousness and agitation coursing through him. He wasn't sure if it was from his two coffees before seven a.m. or his mother's entirely 'business' posture. "Who were you talking to?" he began slowly, simply to break the tension looming over the dining room.

"Your Aunt Phoebe," said Piper hastily. She gave a fatigued sigh. "That's what I want to talk to you about, Wyatt; I think you're old enough now…" she drew in a deep breath, busying herself by pouring a glass of juice. "There's a dangerous demon on the loose."

Wyatt barely managed to conceal his reflexive snort. "I'm seventeen, Mum," he laughed. "I've been 'old enough' for how many years?"

"Wyatt, I'm being serious here," admonished Piper, failing to perceive the humour Wyatt was clearly seeing in the situation. "Your aunt has already been attacked by one of his followers." She sighed. "Look, we'll go over this when you get home from school, but I really need you to warn Chris and pick up Casey from school." She slid a small soft leather pouch towards him. "Give Chris these potions and make sure he stays safe, understand?"

Wyatt's mirthful grin rapidly dissipated from his expression. He pushed the leather pouch of potions back towards her. "No _way_! You know what Chris is like. He _hates_ me!" he bit back.

"Chris doesn't _hate you_, Wyatt," said Piper. "And considering the fact that you're seventeen, I'd think you wouldn't let your personal feelings get in the way of your own brother's safety."

"Chris isn't in danger, Mum. Demons don't give a crap about him." Wyatt steadied his heaving breath and pressed the palms of his hands against the dining table, leaning forwards for effect. "And Chris hates_ everyone_, most of all - me. He broke my leg in three places just two weeks ago!"

Piper's features darkened considerably. "You spiked his food with peanuts and sesame!" she said almost defensively.

There was a short pause on Wyatt's part before he settled back into his chair and inquired, "_So_?" in a nonchalant voice. A small part inside Wyatt's chest took offence that she had chosen to defend Chris as opposed to _him_.

"Chris is deathly allergic to peanuts and sesame. You could have killed him!" exclaimed Piper, her voice now laced with shock and horror. She met her son's apathetic gaze with an expression of deep concern.

Wyatt interlaced his fingers and set his clasped hands on the table, dampening his dry, cracked lips. "Chris has ambushed me with vanquishing potions, shot me with darklighter arrows, and sold me out to demons. I doubt that spiking his food with peanuts is on par with all the shit he tries to pull," said Wyatt. "Do you have any idea what crap he and his cronies put me through _every_ _single day_? Did you know that Chris is chummy with the entire football team? Did you know that Chris and those stupid Jocks have practically built a career out of making my life a complete misery ever since you made him go to _my_ school?"

Piper considered her son closely. "Alright, I'll talk to Chris," she began in a drawn voice, "but as long as you _promise_ to look out for him."

Wyatt laughed bitterly. "I doubt that simply talking to Chris will make him lighten up on me…and I'd never let you embarrass me like that. _I'm_ the older brother. _I'm_ supposed to me the one picking on _him_. Chris blames me for the fact that he can't use magic, did you know that? He acts like it's _my_ fault that he's a powerless little freak!"

Piper's expression darkened. She narrowed her eyes, leaning forwards with a demeanour that dared him to continue. "Chris isn't a freak, Wyatt. You try bordering two worlds, never truly fitting into either one. This life is _hard_ on him considering the fact that he isn't part of the magical world. You have your world and Chris has his. Don't ruin it for him, understand? Now, I need to you to promise me that you'll make sure Chris gets home in one piece, okay?" She raised her eyebrows threateningly and Wyatt could see promises of severe punishment looming behind his mother's chocolate brown eyes.

"I've seen Chris successfully defend himself with a butter knife. He's in no imminent danger."

"No negative feelings," warned Piper. "_One. Piece_."

"Two pieces, maximum." Wyatt flashed his mother a grin when she set her jaw and glared at him. "Well, I've officially missed my bus," he declared, checking his watch.

Piper handed him a thermos mug and pressed a set of keys into his hand. "You can take the car on the condition that you bring Chris home in one piece – not a single body part missing, demonic _or_ brother-related reasons."

"Sure, no pressure, right?" muttered Wyatt resentfully. He snatched the coffee and keys from her and loudly stalked out of the dining room. "No pressure at _all_…and then when Chris ignores me…may as well dig my own damn grave…"

----

Chris pulled a thick exercise book from his locker and tucked it under his arm. He visibly grimaced as the student to his left slammed her locker, causing a dull pain to pulsate through his temples. "Do. You. _Mind_," he snapped at the unsuspecting young girl. "I have a bad enough headache without you clambering around like an idiot! _Beat it_!"

As the girl scampered off with the expression of a wounded freshman, a voice laughed from behind him. "Well, if it isn't Bayview's favourite little Halliwell."

Christopher narrowed his eyes as he turned around to face James Teague. "Is there something you need?"

James smirked and folded his arms over his chest. "Well, fine then, little-twat."

"_Die_, Teague," Chris sneered.

James eyed him and shook his head. "You know, you really have to take off my jacket. People are going to start thinking I'm doing you, or something."

Chris snickered and yanked a couple of books from his locker, mimicking in a high-pitched voice, "Oh, take me, Jamie, I'm yours!"

"Uh, right…." James leaned forwards as if to speak discretely. "I'm in need of your…services," he said in a low voice, flashing a twenty dollar bill.

Christopher rolled his eyes and tugged another book from his locker. "My 'services' aren't for sale, and especially not for _twenty dollars_."

"_Aw_, come on, man! Coach is threatening to kick me off the team if my grades don't pick up and _you_ can get me an A plus!"

Christopher scoffed. "As if they'll kick you off the team; you're the captain and their star quarterback. They're not going to boot you because of bad grades." He closed his locker carefully, wary of making any noise that may reinstate the already throbbing headache he was currently in the midst of. "And what about that _other_ essay I just wrote for you?"

James narrowed his eyes, considering this. "Thirty," he said, pulling out a ten dollar note.

"One hundred, no less," said Chris nonchalantly. "And you're going to spend the rest of 'indefinitely' being my personal taxi-cab."

"No way, man!" exclaimed James.

Chris shrugged. "Your loss," he said, heaving his books under his arm once more. "Find someone else to do your homework."

"Well," began James, "I guess there's that guy with the hair and the glasses who sits at the back of my lit class…."

Chris cocked an eyebrow. "Really? I wouldn't go near him with a ten-foot pole."

Before either youth could say any more, a third voice intruded on the conversation. Wyatt Halliwell approached the two friends boldly, thrusting a small leather pouch against Chris' chest.

"Well, well, well," drawled Chris, leaning against the row of metallic locker, "if it isn't Golden-Boy Halliwell."

Wyatt bristled, shoving the pouch against his younger brother's chest one last time. "Well, if it isn't the Family Delinquent," he snarled back. "Break any law's lately?"

Chris shoved the pouch back towards Wyatt and smirked. "No, but I'm considering looking into murder." He pointedly eyed his brother up and down.

Wyatt gritted his teeth. "_Look_, I promised Mum that I'd warn you so," he jangled the leather pouch that gave of a clinking sound of glass colliding with glass, "I'm warning you. Now, it's up to you whether or not you want to go and get yourself killed. I really couldn't give a damn either way."

"Fine," said James to Chris' left. "You've warned him. Now beat it, _Freak_."

Chris laughed airily. "Oh, we live in the same bedroom. He does," he snickered, "whilst thinking about your girlfriend, actually." To his left, James tensed and clenched his fists until his knuckles grew a pasty white. Wyatt reflexively stiffened before the three friends.

"Oh, does he?" began James in a slow voice. His eyes narrowed dangerously, an almost murderous glint reflecting in his hazel brown orbs.

As Chris smirked, Wyatt took an angry step forwards, rage brewing across his features. "When we get home, twerp, you're _dead_." When he made to step forwards again, James threw his hands out. Slamming his palms against Wyatt's shoulders, he sent his classmate reeling to the ground. Wyatt's textbooks scattered across the linoleum floor, gaining the attention of the surrounding students.

"You think about my girlfriend again and I'll _castrate_ you," spat James, his domineering figure looming over Wyatt's fallen body. "Now _beat it_. I'll see you in Homeroom, _Freak_."

A silence cut through the crowd of adolescents as Wyatt gathered his book, shot one last deadly glare in Chris' direction, and retreated down the hall. Chris grimaced when a student slammed his locker, the sound reverberating through his mind like church bells clamouring against his eardrums.

James slipped a folded piece of paper between the pages of Chris' textbook and slapped a hundred dollar bill into his friend's hand. "The essay's due at the end of the week," he said.

Chris turned his head slightly to peer at James through bleary eyes. "You do realise you're a year ahead of me, don't you?" he said.

"Whatever," said the young captain dismissively. "If your freak brother lays a finger on you, tell me. I'll have him hanging off the flagpole by his tighty-whities."

Chris snickered quietly as he stuffed the fifty dollar note into his pocket. "Aw, and I thought that the hazing ended years ago."

James grinned. "This isn't hazing, Man. Humiliating Wyatt is a sport!" He turned and began to make his way down the hall. "Make sure you're ready. I'll pick you up tonight."

"Why?" called Chris after him.

James grinned again and spun around, backing his way down the hall. "They're trading powers in the Underworld Market, tonight. Maybe we can pick you up something fun!"

* * *

**Post script: **_Hey. If you've reached this point, thank you for reading. Remember, reviews are gold and so is constructive criticism, so I would be eternally grateful if you dropped some on your way out. (:_


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"_So, how did it go?"_

_The man tugged his jacket off and draped it over the worn armrest. He pushed aside the disassembled pieces of an M16 and lowered himself onto the couch that creaked and groaned beneath his weight. With an elongated sigh, he propped his feet atop a coffee table that was covered in piles of manila folders and newspapers that dated months prior. The man ignored his friend's question and eyed the whiteboard that was situated in the middle of the tiny living area of his cluttered apartment._

"_Your annual review," persisted the friend. "How did it go?"_

"_Apparently I'm either a liability or too costly a benefit," said the man after brief consideration, "and they can no longer justify their connection to me."_

_The friend chuckled. "They're pissed you took Excalibur," he translated. Sitting at the grand piano that was positioned between the living room and the adjoining kitchen, the friend rubbed his sleeve against the shiny black surface and examined his reflection in the piano lid. _

_The man grinned and fished around on the file-blanketed coffee table for an orange pill bottle._

"_So," continued the friend, "I assume you didn't tell them about your doomsday vision."_

_The man shrugged and popped a pill into his mouth, dry-swallowing with ease. "I may or may not have insinuated something. It's my only leverage. If I tell them outright, I have nothing to hold over them."_

"_Good to know you have your priorities in check," said the friend, sarcastically. "All the while, the apocalypse is just over the horizon and you've got Excalibur which may just turn you megalomaniacal." _

_The man rolled his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. "Oh, don't be such a drama queen." He grabbed his jacket off the couch and tugged it on. _

"…_the hell are you going?" asked the friend, eyeing the man dubiously._

_The man flashed a grin. "I've got a meeting with Baal." _

_The friend threw his hands up in exasperation, leaning against the piano. "Oh, go figure you're friends with the newly risen pinnacle of all things morally ambiguous, borderline evil." _

"_Who said anything about being friends? For all you know, we could be mortal enemies and I'm off to kill him. I mean, I'm a demon hunter. That's what I do. Hunt," said the man, folding his arms over his chest. He cocked an eyebrow and considered his friend with an expression of pseudo-offence._

"_Yeah, somehow I doubt that, knowing your track record." The friend rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. What do I tell the Fascist Authority Figures when they come a-knocking at your door?"_

_The man stifled a grin, shook his head, and moved towards his front door. Grasping the doorhandle, he paused in consideration and said, "Tell them it's Market Day."_

_----_

Wyatt was seated at the kitchen table, spoon in hand. Positioned between him, Phoebe and Paige was a half-eaten tub of cookie dough ice-cream and a bottle of chocolate sauce. He tapped the back of the utensil against the rim of the tub before scooping up a huge spoonful.

"Okay," said Paige, "names starting with _A_."

Wyatt shoved the spoon in his mouth and sucked on the melting ice-cream. If there was anything his Aunt Phoebe had taught him that was live-his-life-by worthy, it was that there are few pleasures in life more enjoyable than half-melted ice-cream.

"Abraxas," said Phoebe.

Just outside the kitchen door, Wyatt could hear his mother pacing the hall, muttering into her cell phone, furiously. There was a tiny, hidden smile on his face and he couldn't help but glean a sense of sinister self-satisfaction as his mother muttered metaphorical threats of death.

"Andras," said Paige.

Wyatt offered a garbled, "Armaros."

"Somebody's been studying the Book of Shadows," acknowledged Phoebe with a smile. "Abaddon."

"Apollyon," came Paige's response.

Phoebe turned to her indignantly, her spoon halting halfway to her mouth. "That's the same demon!"

"Ah," said Paige, "but it's a different name."

As the two sisters geared up for an argument, Piper strode into the kitchen and snapped her phone shut, tossing it onto the bench. When she folded her arms and turned to them, Wyatt yanked his spoon out of his mouth and quickly discarded it on the table.

"I can't get a hold of Chris," said Piper. "Have you tried sensing for him?"

Wyatt cleared his throat. "What? Oh, yeah," he said in haste. "Not picking up anything. He snuck out with James. Three guesses where _they_ went."

At this, Piper shook her head and glanced over to the ice-cream tub. "Nutritious," she said. "Well, when he sneaks back in, remind him that I give consecutive sentences." She turned to her youngest sister. "Have you spoken to the Elders?"

Paige nodded and dug her spoon into the tub of ice-cream. "Yeah; apparently they felt the power surge in the underworld and they're looking into it."

Across the table, Phoebe nodded. "Mm. Helpful."

Piper sighed and pressed a hand against her brow, shaking her head in exasperation. "Forget about the demon for now," she said. "Have the Elders said anything about Excalibur?"

At this, Wyatt perked up and glanced between his mother and aunts, watching every tiny inflection in their expressions. Paige pulled her spoon from her mouth and swallowed.

"No, sorry, Piper," she said with a wry smile. "Ida says that they haven't heard anything since the last time."

Wyatt frowned and glanced between his mother and aunts. There was a tight coil of possessiveness wedged in his chest and his mind wandered over every conceivable scenario Excalibur could be caught in. "Maybe we shouldn't have kept it in Magic School," he said. "A student could have stolen it."

"No, nobody at Magic School is powerful enough for that," said Paige. "Chances are it was a demon."

"And what?" returned Wyatt. "The demon's just biding his time?"

Piper sighed and shook her head, removing the ice-cream tub from the table. With rough, jerky movements, she shoved the tub into the freezer and closed the door with a dull thud. "You should go to bed now, Wyatt," she said, the accusation of, 'you're too young to hear this,' hidden behind her words.

"Mum, it's only ten o'clock!" protested Wyatt, gesturing exaggeratedly with his spoon.

Piper shot him a pointed look and reiterated, "Bed. Now."

There was a huff and a sigh and Wyatt pushed his chair back with an extended _creak_. "Oh, sure," he grumbled under his breath, tossing the spoon aside with a petulant glare, "I can tell when I'm not wanted."

As Wyatt traipsed out of the kitchen, Piper called after him, "And don't forget to make sure Chris gets home."

Wyatt rolled his eyes and muttered, "…the hell am I supposed to do if he doesn't? Give up my beauty-sleep to orb around, looking for him?"

He took the stairs two-by-two, gripping the handrail with frustrated tightness. On the floor above, he could hear Casey tossing a ball against his bedroom wall, most likely out of chronic insomnia. His father descended the stairs in front of him and offered him a casual smile.

"Heard from Chris?" asked Leo.

"Nope."

At this, Leo chuckled and shook his head. "Have you looked?"

"You doubt me?

"Every step of the way."

Wyatt cracked a smile and ascended to the second floor, heading for his bedroom. His bedroom was dark and cold from the wrenched-open window where Chris had escaped half-an-hour before hand. One of Chris' thousand books lay open on the boy's bed with a half-eaten block of chocolate and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull. Wyatt glanced around before slamming the window shut and wondering exactly _where_ Chris kept that endless stash of cash he always seemed to have.

----

"That shit will kill you, you know."

Chris rolled his eyes and bit into the oily kebab he was holding. With James by his side, the two boys wandered through the heart of San Francisco, exchanging petty insults in between trivial conversation. At ten o'clock at night, The Market wouldn't open for another hour or two, and the boys were lost for exactly what to do.

"You bitch when I eat, you bitch when I don't. There's no satisfying you, is there?" snapped Chris, taking another large bite out of his dinner.

"I don't know," said James with a cheeky grin. "I've got t' say that last night was pretty damn satisfying."

"Oh my, is that innuendo? How I blush," deadpanned Chris. "You bad, you."

As the two friends turned the corner, they passed a young man lying, unconscious, on a bench. A bottle in a brown paper bag discarded on the floor next to him. Chris bit onto his kebab and spared not a thought.

"So, you heard of this foreign demonic power on the loose?"

"Oh sure, because I keep up to date with Wicca Daily," said James sarcastically. "When is there _not_ a demon on the loose?" He paused in thought. "God, it better not be Axelle. I warned that loser not to pick on the bigger fish."

"The guy's a lower life, small time criminal. I doubt that constitutes 'foreign power.' I doubt that even constitutes _power_."

"You never know."

Chris rolled his eyes and threw the rest of his dinner in the closest bin. "The Charmed Ones vanquished the Source of all fucking Evil. A lower-level demon isn't that much of a feat," he said, shooting his friend an annoyed glare.

James just shrugged. "You never know," he reiterated.

Chris clenched a fist and turned the corner. "Do you _try_ to be annoying or does it come naturally for you?"

"Oh, I try. I try very hard," said James, grinning. "I wake up in the morning and think: _Now, what new and exciting approach can I use to make Chris throw himself in front of an energy ball, today_?"

Chris scowled and stopped by a traffic light. "You've taken too many footballs to the head, I think."

James snickered. "I love you, too. It's okay, little boy, back to your cage, now." He ducked Chris' punch and checked his watch. "One hour left. We could go to the park and get our rocks off," he said with a wicked grin.

Chris rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Yeah, just shoot me now." He clenched his fist around his silver Zippo lighter and smirked. "Let's burn shit. Better than sex."

James nodded slowly, leaning against a towering signpost. "The father's a retired guardian angel, the mother's a witch…the son's a pyromaniacal delinquent. Makes sense. You're just avoiding me, aren't you?"

Chris rolled his eyes again. "Take it up with your girlfriend." When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he yanked it out. The word 'Mum' flashed at him in capitalised white letters. To his side, James snickered.

"Oh, look. It's Mummy. Does she know her favourite little pill-popping, binge-drinker of a mortal son is going to prowl The Underworld for some action?"

"Does Captain Teague know that his star quarterback of a son is no more than a man-whoring petty thief?" Chris pressed the 'cancel' button on his cell and stuck it back in his pocket.

"Speaking of," said James. "I told The Captain that I'd like to try my hand at being evil. You know; the lack of conscience, the lack of morality, the instant gratifications and what not. He threatened to ship me off to Military School. I think he just likes the ideas of me fighting in the name of Uncle Sam. _Semper fi_ and shit. Destroy the oppressed evil; channel those nasty thoughts into constructive actions. Woe to the half-blood hybrids."

Chris stopped in his tracks and eyed his rambling friend. He folded his arms over his chest and scowled, recalling his mother's constant threats and raging promises. "You get Military School. I get _Valhalla_. How is that fair?"

James shrugged and grabbed his friend's arm, pulling the younger boy along. "Because my father's a police captain and former marine and your mother is a crazed Wiccan matriarch? And anyway; gorgeous woman and masochism…I really don't know what you're bitching about."

Chris shook his head and sat down on the curb, tugging tufts of grass from the patchy nature strip. He reached up and toyed with the silver amulet hanging around his neck; heard the pop and fizzle as James pulled at the stay-tab on a can of Red Bull. Chris shook his head, checked his watch, and considered the pair of sunglasses he had seen in a shop close by.

"Fuck all to do," said James.

Chris concurred and figured that perhaps there wasn't so much 'nothing' to do as there was nothing to do that wouldn't land them in copious amounts of trouble and thus prevent their venture into the Underworld Marketplace. He had his eye on a pricey item and a stash of fifty dollar bills filled his wallet, and he had decided that his mother couldn't deny him such a monetary transaction as she constantly prattled on about his welfare and ability to protect himself. He was simply doing just that. Chris grinned at his own rationalisation and checked his watch once more.

"Half-an-hour," he said, and took a swig from the canned drink.

James grunted and stole his drink back.

----

Across San Francisco, in the heart of the Halliwell Manor, Wyatt was huddled just outside the dinning room, attempting to eavesdrop of the conversation between his mother and aunts. He hugged his knees closer and hitched his breath.

"Still haven't heard from him?" Phoebe asked, her voice distant from her position in the kitchen. There was a silence, and then she said, "Don't worry about him. I've never had an active power and I've always been able to hold my own. Chris can handle himself; you saw to that."

"That isn't the same," said Piper firmly, "and you can levitate."

"…which doesn't always come in handy in a fight against demons," said Phoebe. "Again, Chris can handle himself."

Wyatt rolled his eyes and silently concurred. He had lost track of the number of times he'd seen Chris go up against powerful, upper-level demons and survive…not to count the times in which Chris had almost died…. Wyatt paused in consideration. Perhaps his mother had actually a valid point, after all.

"…and you can cast spells," continued Piper, "and there's a dangerous nameless, faceless demon on the loose right now that we know absolutely nothing about…."

"Hence the nameless, faceless part," said Paige.

Wyatt smirked and could only imagine the withering expression on his mother's face. There was a cold silence before Phoebe interjected.

"Chris should be okay for now. That demon was just a preliminary attack. Even Chris would have been able to fend him off without too much effort. He's just the messenger, Piper. I somehow doubt that Chris will be the first person this new power goes after."

"You don't know that. You don't know that. We don't know _anything_ about this demon and…its one-thirty in the morning and we haven't heard _anything_ from him and he's out doing…God only knows _what_ it is he does, and…"

A loud explosion and several cries of shock echoed through from the kitchen. Wyatt cringed from his position just outside. He could hear thuds as the kitchen occupants bustled around, voices mumbling in haste and strained attempts at pacification. There was a cry of frustration that he figured most likely came from his mother. He shook his head and wondered why, exactly, Chris continually insisted on playing the Rebel Without A Cause.

Wyatt shifted into a more comfortable position and pulled his legs back into an embrace. His mother and father had long decided that magic resided at the centre of the internal dispute, and, on several occasions, Chris had too expressed a significant distaste for the phenomenon. However, Wyatt disagreed. Not only had Chris attended weekend classes at Magic School for numerous years, but considering the fact that he was buried far deeper in a (perhaps depraved) version of 'magic' than any other Halliwell, Wyatt had to wonder if it was something else. Chris didn't exactly shun magic and go out of his way to assume a role in a normal, non-mystical version of life.

Either way, Wyatt figured Chris was trying _too_ hard, and had to consistently fight the urge to jump down his younger brother's throat and scream, '_You're different. We get it, already_!'

Wyatt shook his head and tuned back into the distant conversation stewing in the kitchen. The brief fray had dispersed and the voices spoke, once more at that concerned medium.

"Chris will be _okay_. He's with James, if that's any consolation," said Phoebe.

At this, Wyatt snickered under his breath. As he anticipated, his mother returned with a vehement, "_No_, actually, that makes me feel worse. Those two have an uncanny knack for getting each other in trouble. …When he gets back, he is _so_ vanquished," said Piper. There was a pause, and Wyatt smirked at his mother's next words.

"I'm sending him to Valhalla when he gets back. For a month. …For _two_."

----

Chris raised the hood of his stone-grey v-neck jumper and surveyed the marketplace with quietly observing eyes. The stalls were organised into three long rows, over-sized tents strategically placed amongst them. Beside him, James examined a long phoenix feather, running a finger across the crimson and golden barbs in awe.

"More than you can 'ford, I'm sure," the stall-keeper grunted, eyeing the teen with suspicious, cat-like eyes.

Chris weighed a velour pouch of ground unicorn horn in one hand. To his left, an aged male demon toyed with fireball and leered at Chris with an expression that made his stomach turn. Across the market place, not too far down from the isle he was stationed in, a table of six human-form subordinates of evil argued animatedly. The young man with whom the demons were bickering offered a lazy smirk and leaned his chair back on two legs.

"How much?" asked Chris distantly, not turning to directly acknowledge the stall-keeper.

"Two 'alf gold pieces," grunted the stall-keeper. "Five 'undred 'merican, five-twenty Canadian, three 'undred pounds…I don' take Yen, but I will barter…p'rhaps for that amulet you're wearin'."

Chris scowled at the stall-keeper and sniped, "This amulet is worth more than five hundred dollars." He tugged four-fifty from his wallet and elbowed James, who was distracted by a ball of glittered, pastel light. When James relinquished an extra fifty dollars, Chris slapped the bills down onto the rickety wooden stall-bench and turned away, paving a path further down the isle.

"I hope he didn't kill any unicorns to get that horn," said James.

Chris stopped dead in his tracks and glared at his friend, tucking the pouch into the pocket of his jumper. "Don't tell me you suddenly have a moral objection to…"

"No, no," said James quickly, a sheepish smile. There was silence as the two friends resumed walking, and James said, throwing a devious smirk towards his friend, "You know, I've always wanted to push you in front of a bus and see what'd happen with that amulet of yours. You're always claiming it's powerful, and whatnot."

"I'd fucking rip your head off, that's what'd happen," snarled Chris.

"God, you're such a nice person," James snickered. "There you go, ladies and gentlemen, Christopher Halliwell, violent sociopath, party of one!"

A demon glanced towards them in surprise, causing Chris to tense and narrow his eyes, threateningly. Under his breath, he hissed, "We're in the middle of the fucking _Underworld_. Just keep saying my name, why don't you…Fucktard."

James flashed him a grin as they passed a stall selling various foods and beverages of a rather obscure nature. "You love it."

"Blood?" said the stall-keeper. "Mortal, Witch, Elf…"

"Uh, no thanks," said James, eyeing the offering with an expression of clear disdain. "…considering that I may never eat again."

Chris rolled his eyes, moving farther down the isle. At the far end, two isles down, the table of six subordinates of evil continued to argue heatedly. The young man stationed amongst them said something that gained an angry cry from one of the human-form subordinates who slammed a fist down on the table, upheaving a goblet of brownish liquid.

Chris stopped at a stall and lifted a long elephant tusk, saying to James, "Got any moral objections against _this_?"

"Bite me, Twat," snapped James.

Chris rolled his eyes and felt his cell phone vibrate in the pocket of his jeans. "Oh, big mistake, Teague," he drawled without enthusiasm. His cell phone vibrated, again.

"Your _face_ is a big mistake," said James.

Chris tugged his phone out of his pocket. The title 'Mum' flashed at him repeatedly, and could visualise her expression of rage beckoning him from across the globe "My God, so brutal of you. I don't know how I'll ever recover," he said sarcastically, not sparing his friend so much as a glance as several birds twittered and drew a curtain of black across the screen of his cell.

James cocked an eyebrow and asked, dubiously, "That thing _works_ down here? What, do you get Interdimensional, Underworld Roaming or something?" When Chris snapped the phone closed, James continued with, "What, not a Momma's Boy, anymore?"

Chris threw his friend a nasty glare and returned, "Have I ever told you that I keep a vanquishing potion with your name in it in my sock drawer?"

"Oh, Christopher," gasped James in mock-horror. "You wound. I thought you loved me."

"Uh huh," said Chris. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and smirked. "_Loved_ being the key term in this con--"

The boy was quickly cut off by a loud _crash_ that echoed through the marketplace. Chris spun around to see that, two isles down, the table of six human-form subordinates had reached the very violent climax of their argument. The table they had previously surrounded was upheaved and discarded on its side, spilling goblets and liquid onto the dusty floor. Five of the black-clad figures surrounded the sixth figure that was resting calmly in his chair. The sixth figure, a young man with youthful features that carved a tale spanning eons, pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket and offered the tiniest impish quirk of his lips.

Chris hitched his breath and stepped backwards when James grabbed onto his arm and hissed into his ear, "Chris, man, I think it's time to blaze."

Chris tensed and felt his hand move to reach for his switchblade. Two isles down, the man's lips moved to form indiscernible words and several energy balls flickered to life. Two isles down, the scene blurred into a haze of limbs and black and sparking blue energy, and the crack of a gunshot echoed through the disturbed air, ringing through Chris's mind.

Chris' vision shifted in agitation, crackling in a spat of black and white static. The gunshot echoed through the back of his mind like a banshee assaulting his eardrums with crazed vocal cords. His temples pulsated and contracted from the increasingly shrill decibels. A sharp searing pain expanded across his chest, dragging him backwards with the impact of a fist to the gut. Gravity shivered and pulled him closer, and two dark eyes watched him from two isles down. He could hear James saying, "Chris? Chris? Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Chris?" followed by a string of garbled expletives.

Two isles down, demons erupted in whirlwinds of ash and flame and gunshots echoed like the screams of wild, demonic children. The darkness expanded like an all-encompassing cold, white light to reach out to draw him in.

----

_The man narrowed his eyes and gripped his two silver revolvers with cold hands. Stepping out from behind the rough stone pillar, he quickly pulled the triggers twice in succession. Before his eyes, four demons exploded in a gush of ash and embers, filling the air with horrified screams. The marketplace was a-flurry with haste as demons and warlocks both fled and stayed to fight. Fire and orbs of crackling energy sped through the air; stalls erupting in flame as the pricey merchandise burned into shrivelled black carcasses of their former selves. Only half of the marketplace occupants joined in the confused fray, and those who did were vanishing before his eyes. The man had fast gained a reputation amongst the residents of the Underworld, and he appreciated that. It saved for time._

_A stall burst into a small inferno that engulfed the stall-keeper and the surrounding environment. Two isles down from the man's position, a young adolescent was attempting to fend of a warlock who was crouched over the unconscious figure of what the man assumed to be the adolescent's friend. The adolescent grabbed onto the warlock, hollering loudly. _

_Before the man, a demon stepped into the open, dressed head-to-toe in black; pullover, jeans, and shoes. The demon scowled, bared his teeth and beckoned his friends, toying with a ball of fire in what the man could only assume was a threatening manner._

"_I did say that I wanted to speak only to Baal," said the man. "Is it my fault you took it the wrong way?"_

_The man smirked lazily and slid aside as fire cascaded past him. He pulled the trigger of his revolver once more, embedding a silver bullet in the demon's chest. A blast of fire erupted across the marketplace, swallowing a herd of demons in its expansive flame._

_The man tucked his weapons back into their holsters, surveying the marketplace. The surrounding area was near-void of inhabitants, continually clearing as the last slivers of fire and smoke dispersed. With a sense of satisfaction, the man tucked his thumbs into the belt-tabs of his jeans._

_Two isles down, the young adolescent hovered over the body of his friend, hands pressed against a bleeding wound. _

"_Brilliant," a voice said from behind the man. "You reputation really does precede you." _

_The man spun around, his hand flying back to his holster and gun. A shadowed figure was leaning against a thick pillar, arms folded over his chest._

"_You can call me Thames," said the shadow. "I have a proposition for you."_

_The man cocked an eyebrow. "From Baal, I assume?"_

_Thames nodded smoothly and stepped out of the darkness, revealing a suit-wearing figure with black hair and crystal blue eyes. "Six of my master's subjects and you take them out in one go. Very good…very good."_

"_Well, that doesn't say very much about _your master_, does it?" scoffed the man. "And if Baalberith wants to speak to me, he can do so himself instead of sending off a middleman." _

_Thames narrowed his eyes and reached into the breast-pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. "As I said, my master has a proposition for you regarding our young friend over there." He nodded two isles down. "Here is five thousand dollars. Call it incentive. If you agree, there's another fifteen thousand in it for you."_

_Two isles down, the adolescent gathered the boy into his arms and grimaced, glancing around. The adolescent's lips moved and the man could hear the echo of swearing. The man narrowed his eyes when he identified the unconscious boy as Christopher Halliwell. The adolescent gathered Christopher Halliwell into his arms and, with one last embellished cry of panic, vanished in a swirl of grey and black orbs._

"_Christopher Halliwell," said the man. "And what does Baal want with a powerless little fifteen-year-old?"_

_Thames smirked and pressed the wad of hundred dollar bills into the man's hand. "Don't under estimate him. He may not have powers, but he is most certainly not _powerless_." His eyes gleamed in all their cerulean-blue wonder. "Twenty thousand dollars all together."_

_The man tipped his head to the side in thought and turned to eye the spot that had previously held a bleeding and unconscious boy. "That depends," he said slowly. "Are you going to take me to Baal, or will I have to keep dealing with you?" _

* * *

**Postscript:**_ Hey. I apologise for the delay. I started this story at a hectic point in my life, but as things have settled down, I now have more time to write. Small chapter, I know, but…yeah. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. Your input is valuable and I greatly appreciate your thoughts on my writing. _

_Thank you to:_ Weiliya, Ovoriel, Linda, Trudy, Sarah James, Mark K, FirePony 16, Nikki Shaw, Spinningleaves, Charmed7293, SHuntress, Jacqs, Jane Mays, Meluvian's Muse, Girlwiththatattitude.

_Linda_: Hey. I'm glad you've enjoyed reading, so far. I beseech you to keep an open mind about Casey (the third sibling). I do enjoy my original characters and he will be only a supporting character in this story. As much as I love creating a dynamic between Chris and Wyatt, I also very much enjoy the dynamic with a third sibling. As the story progresses, he should (I hope) prove to play an interesting role in the way things will span out. (: Anyway, thank you for the feedback and I look forwards to your things on things.

_Trudy_: Hey. I'm delighted you're enjoying the story thus far. Yes, bad-boy Chris is much fun, isn't he? (: I also rather dislike the stories with Chris as a goody-two-shoes…unless it's done well, of course. Or, I could just be a sucker for the bad-boy characters and writing a rebellious Chris is such a blast. It's probably that. :P Anyway, sorry for the wait. Hectic schedule as I started this story during exam time (meep!). But, no more exams so lots of time to write and the update should be a lot quicker!! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter.

_Sarah James_: Hey! I'm so happy you've enjoyed reading! …and that you like the friendship between Chris and James. They're a lot of fun to write together. (: There's an interesting dynamic going on between them. (: As I mentioned to Linda, I hope you can keep an open mind about a third brother. He won't feature very often (until, probably, later on) so I'll try to ease his featurings in carefully. Heh. I'm a sucker for a Chris and Wyatt relationship with lots of tension and animosity. I prefer it to those love-y-dove-y brotherly bonding relationships. Chris doesn't have powers for a significant plot reason and this'll come to light later on. (= Sorry for the delay. Hectic schedule, you know. I hope you've enjoyed this new chapter.

_Nikki Shaw_: Hey! Thanks for reading and I'm so glad you enjoyed doing so! Sorry for the delay. Busy life and what not, but I should update quicker next time!

_Jacqs_: Hey! Thanks for reading and I'm glad you think I've done well so far! Heh. I'm a sucker for bad-boy Chris, too, I have to say! (:

_Jane Mays_: Hi! Woo, glad you've enjoyed reading thus far! Sorry for the slow update, but life got in the way. I'm also glad you're enjoying Chris's characterisation. He's a lot of fun to write. (:


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